


Olvídame y Pega La Vuelta

by AlohaSoleil



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Clairvoyance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Kidnapping, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychic Abilities, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-08 04:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlohaSoleil/pseuds/AlohaSoleil
Summary: Miguel and a new friend find themselves on the the edge of living and death. Everything is fine, until Miguel is kidnapped and risks losing his life and a future--forced to spend an eternity as a 13 year old. His family, without a doubt, will do whatever it takes to save him and send him home. But can they also depend on his new friend?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A taste of Miguel's nightmares that may or may not be visions of the future.

_The world was moving in a blur, but the paralyzing fear quaked through his bones. His fingernails dug deep into his smooth palm while his hand clutched the car door with a deathly grip. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with every bump of the car and he looked over to the driver._

_“You’re going to be okay,” a female voice reassured him. His eyes tried to focus on her face—eyes, lips, nose, anything—yet he couldn’t see beyond the blurry halo of her dark hair. Was this Mamá Imelda when she was younger? “Todo estará bien.” No, Mamá Imelda has a more…distinct and commanding voice._

_‘Where are we going?’ he wanted to ask this stranger, but the familiar pangs of anxiety and fear silenced his voice. A fleeting memory of Ernesto de la Cruz’s bony knuckles holding onto his life flashed in his eyes and that feeling of freefalling jerked his body forward, and instantly the scene changed. He peered down and recognized the golden glow of cempasúchil petals holding his weight. At the end of the bridge was the aging stone entrance to the cemetery—his way home._

_“¡Corre, Miguel!”_

_His head whipped in the direction of that same voice, but the blurred filter only allowed him to see a palette of smudges painting vibrant colors and the faint outline of the Land of the Dead. Although he couldn’t see the shape who possessed the female voice, his mind knew she was warning him at the opposite end of the bridge. Telling him to go home. A small flutter of hesitation kept him rooted on the bridge, until the edge began to collapse and move quickly towards him._

_‘No! No! I need to go home!’_

_His legs carried him as fast as they could, but he wasn’t fast enough. The bridge collapsed beneath his feet, his arms outstretched above his head trying desperately to preserve his life. An ominous darkness swallowed him, squeezing the short breaths out of his lungs._

* * *

 

Miguel’s body jolted awake as he sat up with a hand protectively guarding his chest. A thin layer of sweat seeped from his pores like morning dew kisses on grass when the rising sun begins to warm the earth. A small trickle of perspiration began to snake down his temple and Miguel wiped it away with the back of his hand. His heart thumped faster than he could breathe and hard against his bones, worried it would burst. He ran a shaky hand through the soft, charcoal strands as he tried to slow down the quivering in his breaths.

Silver-blue moonlight seeped through his window and gently touched the pearly surface of Héctor’s guitar. His droopy eyelids glanced over at the alarm clock—3:30a.m.

Since returning to the living world, Miguel experienced a wave of dreams relating back to the Land of the Dead. It’s been a selection of dreams, nightmares, and memories—sometimes, all of them combined. The first two months were the most active and typically featured two characters—Héctor or the one who can go to hell, Ernesto.  All the dreams he had of Héctor ended in his weak bones disappearing into golden dust as the morning sun radiated against his cheeks. With all the nightmares of Ernesto, no one saved him. Not when he was hurled off the building. Not when Ernesto choked him to death as his great-great-grandfather succumbed to the Final Death alone. Not when Ernesto separated his new skeleton body and scattered it throughout the Land of the Dead.  

“I just want to know,” Miguel whispered into the cotton sheets. He reclined and curled into a fetal position, his hands clenching the dusky red quilt. Fresh tears seeped from his eyes and flowed to the side of his face until disappearing into the pillow. Even if he couldn’t see Héctor now, all he wanted was closure. Did he return home? The only answers Miguel received were his dreams, yet none of them authenticated his hope that Hector returned to their family. 

“I miss you.” Miguel sniffled and a waterfall of tears gushed from his chocolate brown eyes. The memory of his relatives who passed on reemerged in his mind and their fierce love for each other, his living family, and him forced more crystals of sadness to escape and dampen the pillow. His soft cries eventually became silent as his sadness pushed him to slumber.

* * *

 

“Bravo, muchacho!”  

“You have a real talent, Miguel!”

 “Gracias a todos!” Miguel humbly bowed and carefully put the guitar back into its case. Performing for the other local residents made Miguel’s heart swell a little—not because of the attention, but because he can spread happiness to others. The ones that really mattered were his own family, but if he can help brighten others’ day, then what’s the harm?  

“Ay, kid. You really can sing,” a new voice piped up from behind him. Miguel glanced back and a smile tugged at his lips.  

“I remember you!” The boy exclaimed.  

“I remember the time you shined my shoes, niño. And your abuelita’s chancla.” The mariachi shook his head and chuckled at the memory.  

“L-lo siento about that, senor,” Miguel shrunk his head inwards and gave a nervous smile.  

“No worries, kid. I just wanted to say hello and…” The rest of his words never registered into Miguel’s brain. Beyond the mariachi in front of him, a young female with the same golden, ethereal glow walked past. Her rich dark hair concealed her face, but he couldn’t shake the strange feeling her aura radiated through his core. His mind recognized the similarity between her and the figure in his dreams, and his body started pumping adrenaline again.  

“Senor, I-I’m sorry to interrupt! But I just remembered I need to run back home and—uh,” Miguel’s eyes flickered back and forth between the mariachi and the female who was almost out of sight. “Clean the courtyard!”  

The man raised his eyebrow in confusion. But he sensed the urgency in the body language Miguel exhibited before him. He shrugged. “No worries, músico. Go do what you gotta do.”  

Miguel had already bolted.

“Gracias!” He shouted over his shoulder, chasing the trail of the mysterious stranger. His eyes searched for that distinct glow, and it caught sight of a glowing skirt flushing around the corner about two blocks away.

‘ _Am I cursed again? Can skeletons visit the Land of the Living outside of_ _Día_ _de Muertos? Ay, I think I’m running faster than when_ _Mam_ _á_ _Coco was alive now!_ ’  

The edge of the block moved closer and closer to Miguel and his energy was surging through his veins with every step and breath. He was so close to running the corner… “Got you!” he muttered to himself in pride.  The moment he swerved, he felt all of his energy and force crash into a poor soul at full speed. His momentum caused him and the person to knock into a table and tumbling onto the cobblestone floor. Miguel felt a surge of pain in his elbow and hip as it came into contact with the ground, but his weight was on top of the person he crashed into. Oops… 

“I-I’m so-sorry!” His voice stuttered as he tried to lift himself off the ground; he inhaled sharp breaths as the mild waves of pain rode its course. “I should have looked where I was—” Miguel paused as his eyes landed on the stranger before him.  The familiar, warm glow hypnotized his eyes and radiated around her entire body.  She groaned as she sat up, a hand moving to her torso and pressing into her body. Her head was bowed down, some strands of charcoal hair dangling in front her face. The vibrant cerulean blue skirt was bunched around her knees, and one side of her white off-the-shoulder top had hiked up one shoulder.  She looked up at the young boy before her, eyes widening in surprise.  

“Are you…Miguel?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel learns more about Santa Cecilia's newcomer and clairvoyance. Surely his gift for music is merely talent, love, and a gift from his great-great-grandfather--certainly not related to being a psychic.

Hazelnut eyes stared back at him as both were frozen in place. The windows into her soul were laced with surprise and…uncertainty? Miguel tilted his head as he took in every single feature of her face. She had soft and elegant features—silky obsidian locks flowed down to her waist; almond-shaped eyes; an oval shaped face like his great-great-grandmother; golden, sun-kissed skin tone. The supernatural aura that once surrounded her began to fade.

‘ _She’s kinda old_ ,’ Miguel thought. ‘ _Probably 23 or something_.’

“Sorry, I made a mistake,” the girl quickly apologized and pulled herself up. She avoided Miguel’s eyes and swiftly turned around to leave. The twirl of her vibrant skirt pulled the young boy out of his frozen state and he immediately followed her.

“Wait!” He called out, grabbing her wrist. The guitar case tapped against his back with a loud thud as he lurched forward. As soon as he had a grip on her, her body slightly jerked, as if the touch of his hand had sent a ripple of shock from head to toe. Miguel noticed her eyes were scrunched tightly, wincing. He gently released her, almost afraid he had hurt her. His hand automatically went to hold his elbow, hoping not to freak her out again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He rubbed his elbow nervously. The soft fabric of his jacket gave him a small feeling of comfort and familiarity. “It’s just…h-how do you know me?”

One part of his mind theorized that maybe she knew him because he plays in the plaza. It made perfect sense! He played by the plaza almost every other day, and passersby would often stop and listen to him. Most of the people knew him by name, and even though he’d never seen her before, maybe she happened to overhear it. But deep down, he knew there was more. That golden aura only radiates around the dead and judging by the looks of it, she wasn’t dead.

‘You weren’t a skeleton and you were glowing!’ a voice reminded him.

Her eyes softened as she gazed down at the boy. “I’ve seen you.” She looked at him, but not in the eye.

“From where?”

“It’s not important.” She tried to push past him and hurry on, but his stubbornness moved his body.

“What do you know about me?” Miguel gently pressed forward. There was a mutual hesitation that he sensed, and he was sweating beads trying not to blurt out anything about his spiritual adventure. She contemplated her answer, and the silence was heightening his inner anxieties. If she could just give an answer! She let out an exhausted sigh.

“I know you visited the Land of the Dead.” His eyes widened and his lungs tightened, the wind sucked straight out of his body.

“Are-are you dead?!” He stammered.

“Do I look like a skeleton?” She asked deadpanned. The innocence of his nervous chuckle and one-dimpled smile made her smile and she shook her head.

“But then how…?”

“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.” She nodded her head towards a pair of middle-aged women walking nearby. Their jaws clenched shut as the bubbly chatter between the women floated along and eventually faded. He followed her eyes and nodded. “Is there anywhere you’re comfortable talking?”

His mind pondered for a moment, and a sly grin curved up on his face.

* * *

 

“Here?”

“Sure, I like it here!”

Miguel led their path as they weaved in and out between headstones. He took extra caution not to torpedo into the gravestones or knock over offerings. The soft footsteps of her shoes rustling against the grass resonated in his ears behind him. His hearing had suddenly sharpened under the shadow of her presence, and an inkling of worry creased over his brow. She was close behind him, but not uncomfortably close. Miguel peered over his shoulder to glance at her. Is this the mysterious girl he’s been seeing in his dreams for the past week? She wasn’t looking at him, instead her eyes were focused on the ground.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” Miguel mentioned casually. He was surprised at the calm and steadiness in his voice and his shaky breaths hadn’t hiccupped in his speech.

“Just moved here last week,” she answered. “I’m Sofía. Sofía Rivera.”

“¡No manches! Really?!” Miguel swiftly turned around. What a coincidence.

“Si, do you not believe me?” Her chuckle and playfulness lightened the tense air that Miguel fully appreciated. He wasn’t sure if it was a grown-up thing to always act composed and with a polite or even dry sense of humor.

“What’s my name?”

The young woman cocked her brow. “Miguel…the boy who visited the Land of the Dead.”

“Miguel _Rivera_.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you related to me?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe, maybe not. You’re not the first Rivera I met.”

His body deflated at the answer. She had a point. Sofía nudged her head forward, and Miguel continued leading in silence until they reached a slightly more private area of the cemetery. Her eyes drawn to one name of a prominent headstone.

 _Imelda Rivera_.

A wave of comfort flowed through Miguel at seeing Imelda’s headstone because it was the closest thing he had to feeling her presence with him. If he couldn’t radiate a sense of power, then maybe her spirit could. He glanced at the other headstones that stood beside hers—Oscar, Felipe, Victoria, Rosita, Julio. A seed of sadness began to grow in his eyes as it befell upon the headstone beside Julio.

 _Coco Rivera_.

A warm hand touched his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Mi más sentido pésame, Miguel.” As her peaceful voice released those words, the sting of salt water in his eyes started to seep. He fell to the ground on his knees, head hung low, and knuckles clutching his jeans. Sofía’s warm presence kneeled beside him and her hand patted his back softly in a movement in sync with his heartbeat. It was almost like a tender, sad song—one of empathy and comfort. They sat for a few minutes in silence. Sofía eventually settled completely on the grass and crossed her legs, but she never moved far away from Miguel. Her hand continued the rhythm.

“How do you know?” Miguel murmured. His voice was low and quiet, filled with uncertainty. He felt small and vulnerable, almost like a lost animal. How did a complete stranger know some of his most emotional memories? Sofía retracted her hand and rested it in her lap. Silence filled the space between them for a moment, as she thought over her words. She let go of a breath.

“There’s no easy way to say it.” Sofía paused, eyes glazed over her fingers toying with the cottons folds of her skirt. She looked up and waited for his reaction. “I’m psychic.”

Miguel blinked at her. “You mean…like you can talk to dead people?”

“Not like that,” she laughed softly and the sound of relief and amusement relaxed the tension Miguel held in.

“Then you’re like a fortune teller?” He pressed on half-jokingly and half-serious. Sofía shook her head again and another chuckle filled the awkward air between them.

“I’m not _that_ kind of psychic, muchacho. I’m clairvoyant,” Sofía explained. A blank look registered on the boy’s face, his brows crinkled in confusion. Was there a difference?

“A what?”

“Clairvoyant,” she repeated. “It means I can get information through more than just our five senses.”

“How?” Miguel leaned closer to her words, a sense of wonder and curiosity twinkling in his eyes.

“Sometimes when I touch things or other people, I see flashes of the past. I can sense the feelings attached to the object or person. In my dreams, I can see what’s to come in the future.” Her eyes analyzed Miguel’s reaction to her simplified explanation and relaxed at the nonverbal acceptance he exhibited. “That’s how I knew of you.”

“You dreamed of me?” His voice cracked.

She nodded. “Ever since I moved here. I was wondering when I was going to eventually meet this mysterious boy.” Sofía noticed a distant look in Miguel’s eyes as he was almost hypnotized by the huddle of the headstones. Not a look of sadness, but a look of yearning, longing. He was searching for something. “You’re worried about him.”

His eyes widened and he sat up perfectly straight. “You saw him?! Do you know if he’s okay?! Did he make it?!”

Sofía almost fell back from the sudden burst of energy that shot through Miguel, luckily she caught herself and held her hands up to tame him. “Easy there. I know who you’re talking about, yet I don’t.”

“Tell me about him,” he insisted eagerly. ‘ _Let’s see how much she knows_.’ Miguel watched her intently as she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. She reminded him of one of those monks whose retreat are the mountains—complete devotion to cultivating and developing the spiritual connection shared between man and nature. He didn’t want to admit anything yet, but could not help staring in awe at the state of peace and calm she had placed herself in. After several deep breaths, she opened her eyes.

“He’s a musician,” Sofía began. Miguel nodded in approval and urged her to continue. “Died very young, around my age--”

“Wait,” he interrupted. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Oh,” he muttered. Well, 23 isn’t _that_ far from 20.

“Why? Do I look old?” she teased. That nervous smile immediately curved up the boy’s face and his cheeks were flushed with a slight pink.

“Well, I mean you’re older than me so—wait, I don’t mean it like that!” Amusement twinkled in the young woman’s eye at the fumbling young boy sitting beside her. His hands tumbled in the air as he tried to word himself better. “If you were thirteen like me, you’re older so yeah you do look old. But not old-old, if that makes sense.” He was out of breath over the clumsy roll of words and looked at her for approval over his correction.

“You probably thought I was like 23,” she joked. His mouth dropped and his eyes widened.

‘ _Can she read minds_?!’

“I told you, I’m clairvoyant,” she sang with a smug look on her face. “Anyway, he didn’t look very good when you saw him. He has a limp.” Miguel’s face dropped at the accurate facts she was spewing. The memory of Héctor was still fresh in his mind, and seeing how much emotional and physical hurt he endured for almost a century pained him. All those years of unnecessary hate. “He is your family.”

“Wow…” It came out as a whisper. “You’re good.” His fingers were aimlessly drawing circles along the surface of the guitar case. Under his breath, the faint melody of a familiar song hummed through his lips, begging to be heard by one soul. ‘Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar…’ For a moment, Miguel’s ears picked up the distinct sound of a guitar strumming in the far distance. He looked back, but the music vanished and not a soul was present. His eyes scanned the landscape for a car, person, animal, anything. Nothing. He turned back around to see a look of thought on Sofía’s face.

“¿Qué?”

“Nada.” He could taste the lie.

Miguel frowned. “No soy estúpido.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she retorted calmly. “I know you’re lying,” he huffed. A chuckle bubbled from Sofía’s throat at Miguel’s pout.

“I think you might be clairvoyant, too.” She gently tapped her chin. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Me? A clervoyant?” Miguel furrowed his brows. “But I don’t have any,” he wriggled his fingers around his eyes, “magic visions or touches.”

Flashes of his nightmares bombarded his memory, and he shook his head. The heart wrenching visions of Hector fading into the Final Death fed off of his fears that he didn’t make it on time. Remembering the terror racking through his core at the murderous energy Ernesto had shown against him. He just hadn’t gotten over it. The man he once idolized and worshipped betraying him and his great-great-grandfather. The dreams he was having? Those were just nightmares. They couldn’t possibly mean anything. Right?

“It doesn’t have to be,” she insisted. She moved in a more upbeat manner and felt some of that energy rubbing off on Miguel. She leaned back and untucked one leg, until it extended outward. “It can be sounds or smell or feelings. And sometimes,” she flicked her wrist downward, almost like she was beckoning him, “you don’t touch anything at all!”

Sounds? Does music count? He had always felt that music was more than just a passion and that there a magical essence about being part of it. It’s part of who he is. His identity. His…dare he say, soul? Did his connection to song transcend the simple pleasures of life and was also a psychic gift?

‘ _Nah_.’

“Really?”

“Por supuesto.” She grinned. “You have a gift. I know it.”

‘You, you have the spirit of an artist.’ Those words sparked in his mind and the feelings of delight in being praised by THE Frida Kahlo brought a smile to his face. Acceptance for who he is. Frida made him feel validated, and so did Sofía.

“Eh, I don’t know…maybe it’s nothing…” He replied timidly, averting his gaze to the guitar.

“Miguel,” Sofía muttered with that tone that was firm and commanded his attention, yet so gentle he wanted to. He gingerly looked at her. “You almost died. I can feel it.” The words were sudden and caught him off guard. Her voice dropped and Miguel swore he could hear almost a dark undertone swaying in her tone. “When you have a near-death experience, your connection to the dead is strong. I can almost guarantee you’re psychic, you just don’t realize it right now.” The sternness and gentleness melting together in her voice felt so persuasive and calming to him. Her genuine belief in who she is and who he is made him feel heard.

“You…you were glowing,” he admitted quietly. “Like you were dead.” A subtle look of surprise crossed Sofía’s face, but she continued to listen. “I’m probably loco and just imagined it, but I just know it’s real. Yet no one believes me, and I probably will go crazy because-because--”

“Hey, hey, cálmese, Miguel. Está bien,” Sofía interrupted in a soft whisper. One hand reached out and lightly patted his, while her free hand comfortingly rested on his shoulder. Miguel looked at her eye-to-eye and he could feel a foreign aura radiating from her. It felt like kindness, comfort, and understanding circulating from the palms of her hands. “I know, it seems crazy that a stranger like me is telling you, you might be psychic--”

“I’m not--” He tried to cut in, but was silenced when she raised her hand near his mouth for silence.

“Just hear me out, amigo.” She reminds him of Mamá Imelda. “Whether you are psychic or not, it’s okay. But there is one thing you are not. You are not loco.” Miguel’s ears perked at her last sentence, and he looked at her with big eyes. But she wasn’t finished. “You are not crazy, Miguel Rivera. Everything you saw and felt in mind and body were real. I will not invalidate your fears or feelings because they are real to you.” The sincerity in her words did not go unnoticed by Miguel and he felt a heavy weight slide off his shoulders. A weight he had no idea he was holding for the last seven months since Día de Muertos. His eyes shined with appreciation.

“You’re the first person to tell me that,” he confessed. “No one in my familia believed me, except…” his eyes looked over at Coco’s headstone, and Sofia followed his gaze.

“It’s not easy going through it alone,” Sofía sighed. “It’s easier when you have someone who’s been in a similar situation.” She patted his shoulder, and he glanced at her.

“Did you…almost die before?” he almost grimaced at the question, afraid of how she would react. Rather than her jerking her hand away from him in anger or annoyance, her head bowed down and she exhaled. When she brought her head up, a soft, empathetic expression etched on her face. She looked as if all her energy had been drained, he could see the pain in her eyes and he almost regretted asking the question.

“That’s a story for another day,” she answered gently.

“But,” he grew timid suddenly, fingers fidgeting, “you believe me, right?” Sofía readjusted herself to sit crisscross, fingers clasped together and eyes on Miguel.

“Tell me your story.”

* * *

 

“And so, I sang ‘Remember Me’ for Mamá Coco and she really did remember!” A warm smile beamed on Sofía’s face at Miguel’s accomplishment, but the frown on his face could not hide the worry simmering in his mind. “I’m happy that she remembered, but…did she remember in time?”

Before Sofía could reply, a loud grumble erupted from Miguel’s stomach. He flickered his eyes between his stomach and Sofía with an embarrassed smile.

“Ay, I think your stomach knows that he made it,” Sofía remarked. She pulled herself up, hands on her knees and extended her hand for Miguel. “I’ll buy you a snack and take you home, amigo. It’s getting late.” His eyes lit up at the prospect of food and he quickly stood up, slinging the guitar case over his shoulder. He gladly accepted her hand and allowed Sofia to hoist him to his feet.

At a certain angle, his eyes flickered to a long scar stretched along her forearm and below her elbow. An unsettling feeling dwelled in the pit of his stomach at the unknown cause of the scar. The gentle squeeze of her hand pulled his gaze up at her eyes—how kind and sincere, yet pained.

“Vámonos,” Sofía smiled. Miguel basked in the caring and sisterly aura she radiated, following behind his new…ally? Friend?

* * *

 

“I found out where she is.”

“Took you long enough, Gabriel. Dime,” the man growled.

“Santa Cecilia.”

“Santa Cecilia?! That puta is living in Santa Cecilia—ha!”

“One more thing…” Gabriel added, his eyes affixed on the road—dark sunglasses concealing the true emotions. The man seated beside him rolled his eyes and glared. A bump in the road bounced the car slightly, but did nothing in lessening the tension.

“¿Qué bastardo?” The impatience in his voice snarled with a sharp bite.

“She changed her name…” Gabriel hesitated. “It’s Sofía Rivera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This convo was long--I know--but I really wanted to set the tone for Miguel and Sofia's relationship here, while also defining some of the psychic abilities that will be explored later in this story. Most of the time, I write chapters and end them with cliffhangers. But this time, I felt strongly that this conversation be one chapter because it just couldn't be broken up. 
> 
> Also, I'm trying to work as hard as I can on keeping true to characters and their development.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't run away from your past. A lesson Sofía should know, especially when Miguel is also paying the price for it.

_A bony grip clutched the back collar of his shirt, dragging his weightless body with ease across the soft, yet firm ground. His arms flung upward, trying to reach and tackle the figure hauling him farther and farther away from the Land of the Living. Miguel dug the heels of his boots hard into the bridge to stall the towing, bunches of golden cempasúchil petals gathering around his ankles._

_"¡Suéltame!" Miguel tried to scream, but only a raspy wheeze clawed out of his throat. The muscles in his chest tightened with every breath of silent pleas as his eyes focused on the fading painting of the cemetery entrance. He thrashed violently, hoping that he could somehow slip out of grasp and make an escape home. With every twist and jerk, the hand only seemed to stiffen his hold on Miguel. "Let me go, De La-"_

_"Dónde está mi muñeca?" Miguel made a face. What?_

_"Mi muñeca…" the man exhaled._

_Definitely not De La Cruz._

_"Mi muñeca dejará de bailar…"_

_Miguel turned his body in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the man hauling his soul to the land of no return. Shadows contoured the man's face, but his sharp jawline caught the light of the moon revealing bone. The boy twisted again, more violently and on purpose, to force the man to look at him. "¡Mírame!" Miguel mouthed with an air of anger and frustration, silence doing little to hold down his flaring temper._

_They stopped._

_An icy and fiery aura radiated from the man, and Miguel could feel his blood run cold in his hands. Slowly, too slowly, the man's skull turned until he met Miguel's eyes. Pure terror, horror, and hopelessness paralyzed the boy to his core, the fear quickly crawling up his spine and squeezing his windpipe shut. With a cold and calculating stare, half of the man's face was flesh and the opposite was exposed, raw bone._

_"Ella nunca volverá a bailar," he hissed._

* * *

 

A heartfelt melody thundered throughout the walls of the small dance studio, the powerful voices of a female and male duet striking into her core as she bent and swayed naturally to meet the passion resonating in the song. The gaze in her eyes were fixed on the reflection before her, but the fire shining through was easily recognizable. Nothing existed, except for her and the music.

_Por eso vete, olvida mi nombre, mi cara, mi casa_

_Y pega la vuelta (jamás te pude comprender)_

_Vete, olvida mis ojos, mis manos, mis labios_

_Que no te desean (estás mintiendo, ya lo sé)_

_Vete, olvida que existo, que me conociste_

_Y no te sorprendas_

_Olvida de todo, que tú para eso_

_Tienes experiencia_

_So go away, forget my number, my face, my house_

_And don't turn back (I could never understand you)_

_Go away, forget my eyes, my hands, my lips_

_They don't want you (You're lying, I know)_

_Go away, forget that I exist and that you knew me_

_And don't be surprised, forget everything you do for that_

_You've experienced_

The emotions bloomed on Sofía's face with every movement across the floor, every curve, leap, spin, and stomp filled with purpose and significance. With the outpour of feeling and power flowing through the words, the rawness of human emotions and vulnerability flowed to the surface. Her face contoured in pain, a display of emotional and physical agony that cannot be expressed in words. Memories painted across her mind as her body presented her narrative, the depth of her story ending as her body slowly wilted to the floor. Eyes closed, chest heaving, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks, the hammering beat of her heart pulsing loudly in her ears.

"You're a beautiful dancer," a female voice piped. Sofía immediately sat up, strands of loose hair from her braid framing her face and sticking out from the plait. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and exhaustion, eyes looking for the source of the voice.

"Lo siento." A middle-aged woman stood in the corner, frame leaning against the outdated door. Sofia's eyes looked nervously to the ground as she quickly pulled herself up and made her way over to her bag lying on a wooden bench. "I'll leave now," she muttered hastily, slinging her blue duffle bag over her shoulder and grabbing her sky-blue Jalisco skirt and Folklórico boots.

"Class ended thirty minutes ago and dancers are not allowed in the studio unless their instructor is present," the woman added, a tone wavering in warning and gentleness. Sofía grimaced at the reminder of the rules and awaited her punishment. A sympathetic smile curved on the woman's face. "Your dancing was beautiful—powerful and full of passion." She adjusted her glasses and Sofia glanced up to meet the woman's eyes. A subtle blush warmed Sofia's cheeks at the compliment and she smiled.

"Muchas gracias, Directora," she answered with a timid murmur.

"You did more than dance—you told a story. Dance gives us the power to tell our stories with our bodies. For that, I praise you." The director studied her face with a critical, yet gentle eye. The restless temptation to fidget or tap her feet along the worn, wooden floors itched in Sofía's bones under the neutral inspection. She crossed her hand over her other forearm and discreetly dug her nails in to ease the urge to twitch or look like a fool. Her nails couldn't push deep half-moon marks into her flesh, thanks to the long sleeves covering her arms. "I hear you're from Mexico City?"

"Sí." Sofía brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The weight of her duffle bag dug into her shoulder, she shrugged it to ease some of the stiffening tension in her muscles.

"Is this your first day?"

"Sí, Directora."

The director eyed the skirt wrinkling in Sofía's hand. "And your performance tells me you know more than just ballet folklórico." Sofía meekly nodded in confirmation. "We don't practice contemporary dance at this school, remember. Although you broke a rule, since you are new and demonstrated a powerful performance, I will excuse it."

Sofía's shoulders sagged in relief and she held the strap of her duffle bag for comfort. "Gracias, Directora. I won't make the same mistake again."

The woman nodded and moved out of the way. "Hasta mañana."

"Sí," Sofía answered gently and made her way out of the studio.

She shuffled to the bathroom at the end of the hallway and to the right. This particular bathroom was her favorite for one reason—the dim lighting filtered by dust on the lights and streaks of natural sunlight peeking through from the window. Most people might be scared going into a bathroom like this one, but she felt a little more relaxed. Sofía went inside a bathroom stall and hung her bag onto the metal hanger on the door. She hooked her fingers at the bottom of her shirt and lifted it over her head.

Absently and with a wince, her hands hovered over large jagged scars trailing along her forearms and inner palm. She glanced at the permanent markers and quickly looked away, rummaging in her bag looking for a shirt and jacket. In the middle of sticking her head and arms through the slits, a strong and familiar feeling suddenly rippled in her core. The heavy, dreadful energy intensified as she slipped her arms through the sleeves of a light coral jacket.

_The feeling when she had premonitions._

* * *

 

"Hola señor, are you looking for something specific?" Enrique walked over to the open customer window at the front of the shop, a mist of dust fluttering around his hands as he rubbed his palms together.

A tall, well-built young man in his early-20s stood behind the counter, arms resting flat along the surface with his hands clasped. Black sunglasses rested securely above his skull, almost camouflaged along his dark chestnut hair. A small cross hooked on a gold chain hung loose around his neck—an image that fit the stranger's style, yet felt unsettling to Enrique. The fitted navy blue long sleeve shirt did nothing more than accentuate the toned muscles of his long arms and solid chest—oh, was Enrique staring? He hoped not.

"I'm looking for some boots," a charming smile curled on his face. "I've heard this is the best zapatería in town."

"We do the best we can," Enrique chuckled. "Do you know what you're looking for?"

"Brown Moc-Toe boots."

"Size?"

"Eleven," he inhaled abruptly before Enrique could turn around. "I want your best pair."

"Ah, sí of course—Miguel!" A series of thumps rumbled throughout a nearby corridor, growing louder and louder as the boy came closer.

"You called Papá?" His voice huffed, body out of sight. Enrique repeated the request and his son shuffled away to retrieve the order. The man leaned closer into the counter, head prodded to the side trying to peek beyond Enrique's shoulder. Curiosity guiding his eyes along the shelves of neatly placed shoes, sandals, and boots.

"Are you related to Sofía?"

"You're the sixth person who has asked us that," Enrique replied with an amused smile. "She just shares the name with us. Do you know her?"

"Sí…very well, actually." The conniving grin on his face raised the hairs on Enrique's arm, yet he couldn't explain the cause of it. A small uneasy feeling bubbled in the pit of his stomach at the hidden meaning behind his answer. "We haven't seen each other in two years. I was passing through the area and wanted to catch up with her."

"Bueno," Enrique coughed. "I'm sure she's dying to see an old friend."

"Oh, I bet she is," he answered coolly.

"Papá?" Miguel nudged his father with the corner of the shoebox, and raised it up to him. "The shoes."

"Oh, gracias mijo." He carefully placed the box on the counter, lifted the lid, and with a delicate touch, picked up the shoes for display. He angled it in different directions to allow a streak of sunlight to bounce off the shiny surface of the boots. "Would you like to try them on?"

"No, no." The customer waved his hand dismissively. "I trust you."

Miguel stood on the side watching the business exchange unfold, but more importantly, the man standing across his father. A strange feeling gnawed his insides as he carefully inspected this new customer. As the man grabbed his shoe box, something caught Miguel's eye.

"That's a bad scar on your hand," Enrique pointed out, eyes cast down on the man's left hand.

"Oh, this old thing?" he lifted his hand up and swiveled it around to reveal a lightning shaped scar running along the back of his hand and a smaller mark at the bottom curve of his thumb. A smirk crossed his lips as he inspected it—the memories flashing in his mind and shining in his eyes. "I got it handling mi muñeca."

Miguel froze at the last words that dripped from the man's mouth. He became stuck in his own mind, not even listening to the last remarks shared between his father and the customer. The dream—no, nightmare—that agitated him this morning was triggered as he replayed it over and over again. That man's voice was the same as the ghostly man hauling him towards death. Miguel made a face mentally—how did he even remember that?

"Miguel? Miguel?" Enrique snapped his fingers in front of his son's blank face. The young boy shook his head and blinked at his father when he refocused on reality. He looked over at the counter and saw no trace of the stranger customer. "¿Estas bien?"

"Oh, yeah," Miguel replied flatly. "I was just thinking."

"You sure?"

Miguel nodded. "I think I'll go to the plaza for a little bit and listen to some music." He turned and stopped himself, one hand rubbing his forearm nervously. "I-if that's okay," he added softly.

"Go ahead mijo," Enrique sighed wearily, but was sympathetically understanding. A small smile curved at the corner of Miguel's lips and he walked away.

* * *

 

_"Miguel!"_

He whipped his head around, looking for the source of the voice. No one approached him, and he released an exasperated sigh. "That's the fourth time I heard someone call me my name," he mumbled. "Por Dios, I must be going crazy."

The voice sounded almost frantic, as if warning him of something. He sat mid-way along the steps of the gazebo, eyes scanning the afternoon hustle of locals and tourists mingling within the center of Santa Cecilia. Even sitting in the middle of all the chaotic movements, Miguel usually found peace through it all as his ears savored the rich and distinct flavors of music.

But not today.

Before the music ban was lifted, Miguel paid close attention to any inkling of music he heard in the plaza and appreciated every musical bubble. Now that he was free to absorb what the musical world had to offer, it was a dream come true that he could embrace his passion and share his love with his family. However, after his adventure in the Land of the Dead, Miguel sometimes found that an overpowering of noise and music made him very sensitive. It was frustrating trying to find balance in relishing music and areas for silence when the need for one or the other fluctuated constantly.

"Miguel!"

"I swear if it's-"

"What are you doing sitting all by yourself?" Sofia wearily walked over to him from the side, the heavy duffle bag still slinging on her shoulder. Miguel examined her face curiously and noticed a mixture of exhaustion and worry written all over.

"Were you the one calling me like five times?"

A brow raised. "No, why?" Sofia her bag down gently near Miguel, and rolled her shoulder at the building ache settling in the muscles. She plopped down beside the boy, tense yet relieved.

"I keep hearing someone calling me name and no one's there," he grumbled. "You're sure you weren't shouting my name out?"

"Positive, muchacho. Maybe you're hearing spirits calling to you."

"Maybe." His shoulders sagged and his fingers fidgeted to the beat of a song rolling throughout the town. Sofía glanced around the town scene, prepared and aware.

"How come you're not up here playing?"

Miguel shrugged. "I thought it might calm me down if I listened to music. But it's not working."

"Bad day?"

"No." He shook his head and leaned his elbows on his knees. "It's just…" Sofía's hand automatically reached out to pat Miguel's shoulder and the gesture released a wave of comfort through him.

"This morning I had this dream about some guy dragging me back to-to-" He gulped and let out a shaky breath. "Over the bridge, and when I saw his face," Miguel lifted a hand to cover one side of his face. "Half of it was bone and the other had skin and stuff."

"I would be scared to death, too," Sofía joked lightly, earning a flat glare from Miguel. "But I know how disturbing it feels and the fear and complete hopelessness you have in the dream. It's even worse when it follows you a little in reality."

"That's not the weird part," he added. Concern began to show itself more and more on Sofía's face as he spoke. "He said something about 'mi muñeca' in the dream and," his voice grew low. "Today a customer bought shoes from us and he said 'mi muñeca.'" As those words slipped from Miguel's mouth, he saw Sofía's golden complexion grow pale and her eyes shouting fear.

"What did he look like?" Sofía managed to speak, her voice breathy and almost shaking.

"I didn't really look at his face, but he has this scary looking scar on his left hand," Miguel shuddered at the memory. "There was something about him that wasn't right."

"Miguel, I'm going to take you home right now." Without hesitation, Sofía quickly stood up and hastily slung the duffle bag over shoulder. He tilted his head just like how Dante often does when the boy tells him something, yet he doesn't really understand.

"What? Why?" Miguel slowly stood up, tugging up his jeans a little.

"I just have a bad feeling." She lifted her hair out from under the strap and shrugged a little to get a better grip of the bag.

"But I don't wanna go home yet," Miguel pouted. "Can't we just walk around and then go home?" He sent her his best puppy-dog eyes as a little bonus. Sofía steeled herself against his adorable mechanisms, but Miguel could see she was also debating and weighing out her options. He stuck out his lip more and watched her reaction, to which she rolled her eyes and sighed in defeat.

"You can come with me to my house to drop off my things," she relented. "But I'm taking you home right after."

"Alright," he nodded quietly. Sofía nudged her head to the side.

"Vámanos. I don't live too far."

"Why are you in a rush?" He tried to take long strides to keep up with Sofía. For a girl who was as tall as his mamá, she could easily outpace someone twice her height. Quickening his steps, he eventually walked alongside her side-by-side, his side accidentally bumping into her.

"I just want you home and safe." They turned a corner, walking past several houses and waving to a few neighbors chirping cheerful 'Hola's. Miguel tried to look at Sofía's face, but she kept her focus straight ahead on the path to her house.

"Did you see something in your dreams?" His voice low and quiet enough that passersby wouldn't even think he spoke, but distinct for Sofía's ears to pick up his question.

She shook her head. " _You_ saw something." She guided them around another corner and continued to walk until they reached the front door of a quaint pale yellow house. It was a bit worn down, but still in a livable state. Sofía wiggled the keys into the first lock, and then jingled it again as she unlocked the door handle.

"Maybe I am psychic," Miguel muttered to himself. He followed Sofía into the house, curiously awaiting to see her home. Before his eyes could absorb a fresh glimpse of the interior, Sofía's arm swiftly circled back and forcing him to stand behind her with a fierce protectiveness. "Wha—"

"Hola, mi muñeca!" He knew that voice. "Mi amor, you're finally home."

Miguel could hear the smug grin hiding the cold evil brewing in the man's mind. Sofía's hand found his arm, clutching him with a deathly grasp. He winced at the feeling of a small sharp pain digging into his arm through his jacket, realizing that it was Sofia's nails. Slowly, his head slanted to the side to see the familiar man standing about ten feet away.

"What are you doing here, Diego?" Sofía's breath hitched, desperately trying to keep her voice steady.

"I'm finishing business." His gaze turned to Miguel. "Ah, you even brought a friend! Hola niño! Miguel, sí?"

"Leave him alone!" She pushed Miguel back towards the door, yet stood her ground before him. The duffle bag loosened on her shoulder, and she let it fall to the ground with a loud thud filling the distance.

"Your familia does make the best boots, muchacho," Diego pivoted his ankle to show off the high-quality signature Rivera boot. "Almost the best thing I ever owned, after Valentina. Do you know her?"

Miguel withered behind the young woman, a slow shake of his head answering the enthusiastic, sly, and calculating grin.

"Oh, that's right!" the man clapped. "You've never heard of Valentina. You know her as Sofía."

"Let him go, Diego!" Sofía repeated firmly. "It's me you want, not him. He's only a child!"

A flashback reemerged in Miguel's mind when he was with his great-great-grandfather trying desperately to escape a former idol's grasp.

_'He's a living child, Ernesto!'_

Diego frowned at the statement, rolling his eyes, neck, and shoulders—the façade melting before them. Darkness clouded his eyes and his jaw clenched, teeth gritting as he calculated. Sofía slowly stepped back, almost knowing his exact next move, the grip against Miguel never loosening. Miguel's heart was hammering through his chest, the anxiety and fear elevating at an accelerated rate, knees wobbling beneath him.

"You _always_ bring children between us," Diego growled with a sharp edge, his hand reaching to his side and pulling out a pearly-iridescent gun. He aimed it towards Miguel's head. "Too bad you couldn't live longer, kid."

_'He's a threat!'_

BANG!

In the moment that the sound cracked, time moved painfully slow. Everything went silent in his mind. Miguel felt a faint and sharp wind cut past his cheek, the bullet almost running through his head. Soft, yet sturdy arms enveloped him and began pulling him away outside, encouraging him to run. 'Run!' his mind shouted to his limbs, but they were stuck in some invisible molasses.

"Come on, Miguel!" Sofía pulled him by the arm, running down the block and making a swift turn around the corner. Her voice snapped him out of the shock that almost paralyzed him, and he found his legs picking up speed and matching her pace. "I have a car at the end of the road."

They ran up to a red Hyundai Tiburon car, a light coat of dust covering the well-kept vehicle. Sofía's hands shook as she tried to get the keys to quickly unlock the door—"Hurry!" Miguel cried frantically, his voice high on anxiety.

"Got it!" Sofía cheered and immediately ushered Miguel to climb over into the passenger seat. With the door slammed close, she wasted no time kick-starting the engine and driving as quickly (and safely) as she could.

A feeling of déjà vu wavered in Miguel's chest as the car drove over several bumps. He clutched the side handle, knuckles turning white and the curve of his nails biting into his palm. His heart was practically jumping outside of his chest, while his mind frantically tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. He whipped his head to look behind them every few seconds looking for any sign that the guy was coming for them. Nothing looked out of the ordinary as he gazed past the dusty haze kicking up from the car tires.

"You're going to be okay."

Miguel froze. This wasn't déjà vu.

"Todo estará bien," Sofía crooned in a soothing, quiet voice. There wasn't any quivering in her words, but Miguel could feel the pain in her tone and hear the fear she tried to hide. She looked at him and he returned the glance, looking into her eyes. Even without words, he could clearly see what she was saying.

_Lo siento._

"Where are we going?" he finally asked, secretly relieved he still had his voice.

"Police station. You'll be safer there." The car began picking up more speed as they neared the exit to the town.

"Why was that man trying to kill you?"

The burn behind her eyes started pushing tears to the surface, but she refused to let them fall. "I fell in love with the wrong person," she answered softly. "He—"

A sharp, sudden force came into contact with the side of the car, almost forcing the car off the road. Looking over to the left, an old black Mercedes car with the passenger window open drove parallel to them. Pure anger and malice possessing him, the gun pointed directly at Sofía.

"Get down Miguel!" She pushed his head and body down as forcefully as she could until he could slip under for safety. He immediately slid down, covering his head for protection as the chaos loomed around him. Miguel twisted his body to fit into the space a bit more comfortably. A series of gunshots fired and he felt the car swerving slightly and eventually a loud cry of pain.

From his small "corner," he could see a rush of blood spilling from Sofía and her arm wrapped around her waist, pressing into the wound. Miguel's breathing quickened at the sight of blood and fearfully glanced up at his companion. Her brows crinkled and she winced at the pain rapidly settling into her flesh. Rolls of tears were streaming down her face and she inhaled deep breaths to maintain what little focus she had. Finally, she looked down at Miguel and he saw the look in her eyes change.

From pain to comfort.

"Don't worry, Miguel. I'm fine," she smiled and tried to laugh. "Todo estará bien."

That was the last thing he remembered as a powerful force crashed into the car, and he spiraled immediately into an abyss of darkness. 

* * *

 

Translation: 

 _Dónde está mi muñeca =_ Where is my doll? 

 _Mi muñeca dejará de bailar =_ My doll will stop dancing.

 _Ella nunca volverá a bailar =_ She will never dance again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG this chapter took forever for me to write! I was hoping to have this done by last week, but so many things came up and I rewrote the beginning about five times until it felt right.
> 
> The song I incorporated in Sofía's dance scene is "Olvidame y Pega La Vuelta." The translation is Forget Me and Don't Turn Back, almost ironic to the main point of Coco. I chose the 2016 version of the song with Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony, and while some may criticize my decision to not use the original version, there is a much deeper reason for my choice.
> 
> If you've heard the modern version (And I recommend you listen to it because it's VERY POWERFUL AND RICH WITH EMOTION) then you will immediately notice that it's a song that is saturated with tones of vulnerability, heartbreak, pain, love, and moving forward. These emotions and also the translation of the song are so instrumental and appropriate for Sofia's story (which we will get to later on) that it would be a crime for ME to not connect the two.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel finds out he and Sofía aren't entirely dead (but they're not quite alive either). But it's okay! They can cross between the living and dead and go home when they want. There's just one important rule they need to remember. 
> 
> Unfortunately, one soul wasn't very lucky to make it out of that crash...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very happy with this chapter and I hope y'all enjoy it! Just an update: I start classes again Monday, so I will do my best to post at least once a month.

“¡Cuidado Jorge! Keep his neck still,” the female paramedic warned as she slowly wiggled the body out of the crevices within the car. Splotches of crimson were smudged along the back of her hands as she worked to maneuver the lower half of the body out of the car.

“I’m doing the best I can, Flor!” Jorge snapped. His latex-covered hands protectively cradled the bloodied head of the victim, despite it being held in place with a neck brace. “You need to hurry before he dies from internal bleeding or head trauma.”

“Almost got him,” she muttered. A few more wiggles, and she felt no resistance holding the victim down. “Okay, he’s good. Let’s get him on the gurney!”

“Uno, dos, tres,” both paramedics counted before simultaneously raising the body onto a gurney as another worker quickly wheeled him into the ambulance. Immediately both followed until they reached the ambulance; Flor climbed in first, grasping the end of the gurney to wheel in the victim. She began removing her blood-stained gloves and gave a quick nod to Jorge as he hopped in and closed the van doors.

“Stay with us, niño,” Jorge demanded quietly to the unconscious form, as he threw away his old pair of gloves and stretched his fingers into a clean pair. He gently positioned an oxygen mask over the young boy’s face and secured the elastic strap around his head. A faint mist fogged through the transparent mask and disappeared in sync with the boy’s shallow breathing.

“He’s still breathing, but we need to move fast!” Flor affirmed as she rolled her shoulders and started cutting the shirt from the bottom. Large areas of deep purples hues were splayed around the growing boy’s torso, and the paramedic carefully prodded the areas to observe any reaction from him. She sighed at the lack of response. “There’s a possibility of fractured ribs, but a high chance of internal bleeding near the lungs.”

“I don’t know if you can hear us, chamaco,” the man muttered as he moved along in the medical evaluation. “But we’re going to do everything we can to make sure you live.”

The moment those words left his mouth, the mask stopped fogging up.

* * *

Informing a family with this type of news is, and will never be, an easy task. His feet strode across dusty cobblestones and turned around a few corners, and he savored the satisfying crunch beneath his confident steps. A few more strides and he stopped, eyes glancing at the familiar shoe-shaped sign.

_Rivera—Familia de Zapateros_

A heavy breath slipped from the man as he accepted the weight of his duty. Another deep breath in straightened his posture and squared his broad shoulders. The nylon of his navy-blue uniform was trapping the summer heat and encouraging sweat to seep from his pores along with the tension quickly stiffening his muscles.

“It never gets easy,” he whispered to himself and carried himself over to the store counter. His knuckles tapped against the wood to call for attention.

“Officer Gutiérrez!” Berto’s voice rang cheerfully, which coaxed a thin smile from the cop. Suddenly, most of the tension his body contained was released at the simple greeting and optimism in a familiar face. “Long time no see! Qué pasa, Raúl?”

“Well--”

“Here to complain about blisters?”

Raúl chuckled and shook his head. “I won’t make that same mistake again.”

Berto’s eyes suddenly widened and his voice dropped. “Are you trying to get another date with Gloria?”

“No!” Raúl scoffed, but then glanced around and cleared his throat. “But I’ll get around to that later.”

“Trying to switch careers with us?”

“I-no!” He protested, almost offended. “First of all, I _like_ my job. I’ve been at it for 25 years, amigo.”

“And our zapatería has been here for almost 97 years,” Berto retorted with a smug grin. Raúl rolled his eyes and mentally cursed his poor ability to think of witty comebacks on the spot. “So what are you here for? There are only two reasons for you coming around: Gloria and shoes.”

“It’s about Miguel.” The taste of his words were bitter for the officer. This kind of news was best to give directly to the parents and have them inform the rest of the family.

“What about Miguel?”

Oh no.

“Ay, hola Doña,” Raúl greeted, swiftly removing his cap in the presence of the new matriarch.

“Is someone complaining about my sweet little angelito cielito perrito playing with that…guitar again?”

“No, nothing like that,” Raúl answered, though he wished that was the purpose behind his visit.

“Ay, then what?” Elena asked impatiently.

“It’d be better if I spoke to Miguel’s parents.”

“Are you saying I’m not good enough to speak about my own grandson?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Doña,” Raúl argued calmly. “I came to speak with them specifically.”

“Whatever you have to say about Miguel, you can tell me, too.”

“But--”

“I’m part of his familia and I have a right to know what this is about.”

“Also, they’re taking care of the baby right now,” Berto added.

Raúl exhaled in defeat and mentally armored himself. The longer he waited, the worse it would be for him. Nip it in the bud so he could move on. “There’s been an accident.”

“ _¿Qué?!_ ”

“What kind of accident?”

“A car accident.”

“Where is he? Is he okay?” Elena questioned in alarm, the desperate need for answers clouding her voice.

“He’s on his way to the hospital right now, and I will need to ask you and your family some questions.”

Elena narrowed her eyes on the man standing on the opposite side of the counter and marched up to him with a strained finger. “You come to our house to tell me my grandson has been in a car accident and YOU want answers from US?!”

“Mamá, he’s just doing his job.”

“Raúl Gutiérrez, I demand to know _exactly_ what happened to my grandson,” Elena hissed, voice low, deep, and seething with rage.

The officer swallowed hard and nodded. “All I know is that Miguel was in a vehicle with Sofía, and there was a shooting involved with another car. But another oncoming vehicle crashed into both cars.”

“A…shooting?” Elena’s face dropped, blood running cold.

“Sí,” Raul confirmed. “But we will need a relative to go to the hospital to confirm that Miguel and Sofía were involved.”

“A shooting.” Elena repeated quietly.

“Sofía?” Berto’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “There’s no one in our family named Sofía.”

* * *

_‘No music!’_

_‘You go home my way or no way! I will not let you go down the same path he did!’_

**Mamá Imelda, no! He tried to come home…**

_‘When there’s no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this one…we call it the ‘Final Death.’_

**She remembers…Mama Coco didn’t forget you!**

_‘I’m the one who’s willing to do whatever it takes to seize my moment. Whatever it takes.’_

_‘Your familia does make the best boots…too bad you couldn’t live longer, kid.’_

**No! No! I don’t wanna die yet!**

_‘I fell in love with the wrong person…I’m fine, todo estará bien.’_

**Sofía? Where are you?**

_‘Stay with us niño.’_

_‘…fractured ribs…a high chance of internal bleeding near the lungs.’_

_‘I don’t know if you can hear us, chamaco…’_

**I can hear you. I’m here!**

_‘But we’re going to do everything we can to make sure you live.’_

“I’m not ready to die yet!” Miguel screamed at the top of his lung as his arms thrashed around violently at the voices in his head. His body jerked up with an intense force, while his lungs inhaled a large and much-needed gulp of fresh air. Though his eyes were wide open, he was completely unaware of his surroundings; instead, his vision was streaked with haziness and flashing stars. The world was tilting—well, it felt like it—and a lingering swell of nausea curled in his stomach.

“It’s alright!” a soothing female voice exclaimed over his outburst. “Cálmese, cálmese.”

The young boy felt warm and gentle hands tenderly massaging his shoulder and rubbing his back. Immediately, the surge of comforting energy flowed through his muscles with each movement. Without thinking, Miguel leaned into the unknown person offering full-hearted devotion and reassurance. His breathing slowed, but his body hiccupped and quivered from the unwanted high he experienced.

“I don’t want to be dead,” Miguel whimpered.

“You’re not.”

“I want to go home.”

“Shhhh, you can,” the voice whispered. “What’s your name?”

“Miguel,” he answered quietly. He slowly pulled away and his breath hitched in his throat at the face staring back at him. “A-anima sola?”

He sat across from a young woman with peachy-cream skin, shining azure eyes, smooth, rich chocolate hair that flowed past her shoulders, and fresh cherry lips. Broken chains were cinched around her wrists and rattled with every sway of her thin arms. What was most striking was the faint outline of her skull and bright markings radiating with a gold edge from just beneath her skin.

“So you know what I am.” It was a statement, rather than a question. A sympathetic smile crossed her face at the recognition flickering in Miguel’s eyes.

He had seen her face carved into candles and imprinted along the pages in books and prayer cards. Sometimes he overheard strangers offer prayers to souls like herself. Too good for hell, but not ready to ascend into heaven—the souls lingering in purgatory. To move beyond this realm, they must temporarily suffer within dancing flames. Except, she wasn’t engulfed in a fiery blaze as seen on pages, prayer cards, or wax.

“A lonely soul…” he answered, voice creeping barely above a whisper.

“Juanita.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my name,” she said simply with a shrug. “I’m not just some lonely soul working out purgatory.”

“Ah, of course not,” Miguel agreed sheepishly with a hand gently rubbing his other wrist. He glanced around, quickly realizing that he was sitting in the middle of the marigold bridge. A misty haze surrounding him, yet the vibrant rainbow lights ahead could still be seen ahead. “Why am I on the bridge again?”

“It’s the border between the living and the dead.”

“But it’s just the bridge,” he pointed out. “I thought it only carried souls who died and walk over to the Land of the Dead?”

“It is, but this one does not lead to the main entrance,” Juanita answered. Her response was met with a look that clearly said, ‘Huh?’ Her slender fingers dragged across the bridge and captured a bundle of petals. “This is a special bridge only for those in between living and dead.”

Miguel glanced backwards and saw the faint outline of the cemetery gate standing at the end of the bridge. His shoulders sagged in relief and he felt a wave of relaxation flow through him. Knowing that he had the option to return home eliminated the worry of getting permanently stuck in this new world.

“Since you are neither alive nor dead,” Juanita continued, until Miguel met her eyes again. “You have the ability to freely roam either realm.”

“¿En serio?!”

“You have full authority whether you want to go back home or continue to the Land of the Dead.”

“So that means, I can go see my familia on the other side and then go home?!” If Miguel’s heart could burst, it would have in that moment.

Juanita bobbed her head as she pondered the question. “If you wanted to, sí.”

This was perfect, perfect, _perfect_! Miguel’s mind played out the imaginary scenario of seeing his relatives and finally confirming whether he had saved Héctor in time. This was the moment and opportunity for him to gain closure from that adventure, and catch up with his familia. Especially his Mamá Coco. How he hoped he had made it in time and that Papá Héctor was able to finally see her again and create new memories in their new life together. It was too bad he only had until sun—

Miguel gasped. “How much time do I have until I return home?!” He silently prayed for a day or two—just enough time for a mini reunion and to have some fun with his great-great-grandfather one last time. Please, please, please!

“You decide.”

Miguel blinked at the response. “I decide?”

“Your physical body is technically in a coma,” Juanita explained. “When you decide to return to the living, you must cross this bridge again.”

“But what about the ones who choose to…pass on?”

“If they choose to cross over to that world, then they will be baptized in a special pond near Arrivals.”

“But I don’t want to walk over al--” Miguel’s eyes widened as he glanced around frantically. “Where’s Sofía?”

“Sofía?”

“She was with me before we-we--”

“You mean, this girl?” Juanita moved aside to reveal the unconscious form of his friend laying on the bridge.

“Sí! Sí! What’s happening to her?” He rushed to her side frantically, resting on his knees beside her sleeping form. His eyes couldn’t move away from how Sofía’s body flickered with a golden beam—much like the slithering claws of the Final Death lurking to claim its next victim. His hands hovered over her body while the light engulfed her, but didn’t dare make contact. What if the slightest tap of a finger sent her to a premature death? “Is she dying?”

“She’s transitioning.”

* * *

 

_“Come, niña.” A nun waved her hand encouragingly and rested it on her shoulder when she slowly stood beside her. A couple stood before them. “This is going to be your mamá and papá.”_

_“Hola,” the little girl greeted politely. The couple smiled and the woman knelt to the young girl’s level._

_“Hola, mija. We’re going to be your familia from now on,” the woman crooned as she was met with a joyful smile from the four-year-old holding a small stuffed animal._

**No, you’re not.**

_“Don’t worry, we’ll be back.” The woman swiped on cherry-red lipstick within the lines of her plump lips._

_“But what if I get lonely?” The young girl clutched her stuffed animal closer to her chest as if it were a shield._

_“You’ll fall asleep and when you wake up, me and Papá will be home.”_

_“You won’t even notice we were gone,” the man added as he leaned against the doorway._

_“Why can’t I go dancing with you and Mamá? Why do I have to stay at Tío Mathias’ empty house by myself?”_

_“You’re too young to come with us, mija.”_

_“I’m not!” She protested. “I’m eight years old, I’m a big girl now. You always tell me that.”_

_“Not old enough to come dancing with us.” The man tapped her chin._

_“But I’m a little scared.” She went over and tightly wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist._

_“You’ll be fine.” Her mother grabbed an arm and pushed it away from her waist. “Ay, Valetina, don’t ruin my dress.”_

**I don’t want you to leave me…**

_“Diego!” She gasped._

_“Why are you doing this to me?” He snarled, grabbing her wrist with a deathly grip. “You haven’t answered my calls or texts for months. After all I’ve done for you and this is how you treat me?!”_

_“You’re hurting me!” She whimpered as she struggled to loosen his clutch on her._

_“You left me because of this?!” He pointed to her growing belly._

_“¡Oye! What are you doing to her?” A distant voice demanded._

_“Por favor, Diego! Just let me go!” She begged._

_“I gave you this baby,” Diego murmured. “And I can take it away.” He pulled out a knife from his pocket._

* * *

 

A stronger glow around the girl’s wrist caught the attention of Juanita’s eyes and she moved the sleeve up to reveal two thin metallic gold bands carved into the wrist, shining as bright as the glow surrounding her. “Hmmm.”

“What’s that?”

“Your ticket to cross between the living and the dead.” Miguel glanced at his own wrist and noticed he also had a shiny gold band of light imprinted into his tan skin. “Why does she have two and I only have one?”

Sofía’s body jerked forward into a sitting position, lungs desperately crying for the sweet taste of fresh air. Her sudden and unexpected awakening prompted Miguel to jump in fright and surprise. A dry and harsh cough rumbled from her throat as the gold flickers faded from her.

“Está bien, está bien.” Juanita’s calm voice rang in the air as she rubbed gentle circles against Sofía’s back.

“Mi bebé,” Sofía cried softly, but another deep cough was forced out of her chest. Juanita gently tapped her back until the coughing fit subsided into heavy breathing.

“Welcome back, chica.”

“Not again,” Sofía groaned, her hand wearily rubbing her face. A gasp hitched in her throat when 80 pounds of boy enveloped her into a tight embrace. She stiffened for a moment, surprised at the gesture—but quickly softened as her hands reached around to offer gentle pats against Miguel’s back. “Are you okay?” She whispered delicately in his ear.

He nodded against her shoulder, appreciating the soft silky fabric rubbing against his smooth skin. “I was afraid you died,” he murmured into her sleeve.

“No,” Sofía whispered. “Not yet.” The duo moved apart and shared a small smile; Sofia gave gentle squeezes around Miguel’s wrist. “Let’s go home, hm?” As she moved to stand, she couldn’t bring Miguel to straighten himself with her. “What’s wrong?”

His hands began to fidget with one another—one hand eventually massaging his other wrist; a sign of timidity, embarrassment, and/or he was afraid to bring up his message. “W-well, Juanita said that…”

She looked between Miguel and Juanita, and the realization instantly flickered across her deep brown eyes. “You can cross between the living and the dead, until you decide where you wish to be,” she finished quietly.

“Sí, so I thought maybe I could go check on mi familia to see everyone?”

_‘To see Héctor.’_

_‘To see Papá Héctor.’_

Sofía shot a quick glance at Juanita, who raised her hands in defense. “I’m just doing my job, chica.”

“Miguel.” Sofía sighed, averting her eyes from the young boy.

“Sí?”

“It might be dangerous if we go to the Land of the Dead.”

“We can leave right after, I swear!”

Sofía shook her head. “It’s not just that, Miguel.” Her face dropped and the young teenager could see, feel, and hear the stress radiating from her—a heavy weight she was trying and struggling to bear alone. “We don’t know if Diego is dead or not, and if he is...”

“I know he might be dead,” Miguel agreed. “But if I’m not alone, it should be okay. I’ll have you and my family!”

“Miguel...”

“Por favor.” His voice was barely audible, especially with his head hung low. “Please, Sofía.” He looked up to her and their eyes met—his brimming with light crystals and hers softening as she explored deep into his.

All at once she felt it. They say eyes are the windows into your soul, and Sofía saw right through—very clearly. She felt the emotional pain that had been tormenting this young boy for the past seven months—never resting to give him any peace during the slumber and chipping away at the potential for him to create a safe comfort with his living relatives.

_I need this. I need to know._

She raised herself to full height, squared her shoulders, and lifted her head high. Catching one last glance at Miguel, she held out her hand for him to take. His brows crinkled in confusion and he remained seated until Sofía gently waved her hand to encourage him up. She held their hands together, both facing in the direction of Santa Cecilia and Juanita.

“Por favor--”

“You are not going to leave my side.”

Silence rose between the two. Miguel looked to her, mouth hanging and waiting.

“We are coming here right after.” She felt the boy’s grip in her hand tighten, and turned her gaze to Juanita. “Does he know all of the rules?”

“I covered almost everything,” Juanita replied. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

“I think I know by now.” Sofía lifted her wrist to show the double gold bands. She turned to look at Miguel. “How much time do we have here?”

“As long as we want!”

“How do you go back to the living?”

“Cross this bridge.”

“How do you pass on to the Land of the Dead?”

“You get dunked in a pool.”

Sofía rolled her eyes, but a small smile lingered on her face. “What are the bands on our wrists?”

“Our tickets to cross over between two worlds.” “What happens if you hurt your heart?”

“Huh?”

“That’s the last thing you need to know, muchacho,” Juanita answered with a tone more serious. Miguel glanced between the two women with a gleam of curiosity in his eye. “It’s also the most important rule to remember.”

“What is it?” He leaned in curiously.

“If your heart is damaged in any way, you cannot cross this bridge.”

“So that means you die?” He grimaced while his free hand absently moved to shield his heart.

“No one really knows for sure what happens.” Sofia sent a gentle squeeze through his hand. “It hasn’t happened to anyone, even when I was here. Unless I’m wrong, Juanita?”

“Nada.” The spirit shook her head. “But you cannot cross the bridge if your heart is hurt. Don’t be the first, claro?”

“Sí, claro.”

“I think you’re ready, Miguel.”

He glanced up to Sofía for a silent confirmation, nerves tingling again at the possibility that she might have changed her mind in the span of two minutes. Ready for the worst, hoping for the best. She peered down at him, a small smile tugged at her lips and a single nod.

“Let’s get our ticket,” Sofía urged, extending out her wrist—Miguel letting go of her hand and mirroring her gesture. Juanita gently wrapped her fingers just above the last cuff of their wrists and a golden glow exuded from the chains locked on her wrists. The last chain radiated brighter and eventually disappeared, and a bright halo revolved around Sofía and Miguel’s wrists for a moment and dwindled. Juanita let go to reveal a newly minted metallic cuff engraved into their skin that beamed when it caught the light.

Three on Sofía. Two on Miguel.

“Whoa,” he remarked in awe, eye glued to the new branding on his arm. He swiveled his wrist to capture the light from all angles.

“Come on Miguelito.”

“Be careful and buena suerte,” Juanita warned as the duo turned to face the rainbow lights of a familiar world.

* * *

 

“Señor! It would be best if you calmed down!” The clerk exclaimed; he physically winced at the distinct sound of angry bones cracking a mirror. “Death is not easy for everyone.”

Diego whipped his head towards the clerk, a malicious gaze flaring in his glass eyes. “ _Where. Is. She?!_ ” He roared as he stormed in the direction of the frozen and fear-stricken worker. A hard fist came down against the wooden desk and the clerk yelped. “I asked you a question,” Diego hissed.

“If y-you could calm down, S-señor Gonzalez, I-I could find out,” the poor man managed to collect himself under the sudden wrath. He moved to his chair and began frantically typing on his keyboard.

Diego released an impatient huff before crossing his arms and clenching his jaws. He eyed the man with a critical eye and began to glance around the room as silent tension filled the office. ‘Why can’t he hurry up?!’ He mentally shouted. ‘How hard can it be to check if she’s dead or not?!”

“Señor?”

“What?”

“Do you know her name?”

“Valentina Martínez.”

A continuous series of typing.

“Oh,” the clerk muttered quietly. If he had flesh, fresh beads of sweat would start dripping down his forehead and blood slowly draining from his face. “There’s no one under that name?”

“What?” His voice was low and cold. “That’s impossible, she has to be somewhere in the sys-” He paused as a thought entered his mind. “Try another name.”

“Sí?"

“Sofía Rivera.”

The satisfying clatter of keys typing echoed once again.

“Ah! Good news! She’s not dead!” Anger began to bubble in Diego’s bones at those words and his hands tightened into fists. He dropped his expression of disappointment and frustration and he flashed an artificial smile when the clerk looked at him with a look of relief. “She was just added into the system, along with a young boy.”

“So…she’s living.” Diego forced the words out of his mouth, as if it had a bitter taste.

“No.” The clerk shook his head. “She’s not alive nor dead—she’s in a middle state that allows her to roam between the living and dead, until she decides which realm to turn to. The record shows that she passed through our gates not long ago, so you can still interact with her should you two meet here.”

“Gracias.” A sly grin creeped on Diego’s face and a dark cloud grew in his mind.

_‘I can still finish the job.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification purposes: when Miguel and Sofía transition into this middle state, they see/hear their memories based on their psychic inclinations. I rationalized that because Miguel has a very strong connection to music and sound, he would hear key quotes from his memories (all of which are from the movie) rather than seeing it play it out visually. 
> 
> Sofía, on the other hand, has a stronger psychic connection through visuals (dreams, visions, etc.) As a result, she sees her memories rather than hearing those conversations like Miguel would. 
> 
> Also would like to point out that her memories are hints to the childhood emotional neglect and emotional abuse she experienced with her parents and Diego. Later in the story, we will see more of that backstory of abuse.


End file.
